


#1 - RISE & FALL

by orphan_account



Series: The Metamorphosis Cards [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Arkham Asylum, Blackgate Penitentiary, Explicit Language, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, crippling flashbacks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-03-13 04:10:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13562529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It's been eight years since Bruce Wayne saw Jerome Valeska dissolve into a vat of chemicals.Then out of nowhere, someone going by the alias 'Joker' pops up threatening to blow Arkham Asylum to smithereens. And he's an awful lot like someone Batman wished to forget for a long, long time.But he's dead, right?{UNDER EDITING}





	1. Prologue

 

_"Drop the gun."_

_He twisted his head around slowly to look at Bruce, razor teeth stained crimson to the colour of his peeling lips. In his left hand gripped the cold metal, a bitten fingertip on the trigger. His knuckles trembled and spasmed allll the way up his arm and goddamn did he look fucked up. He was grinning so wide the corners of his mouth reached his ears._

_"Dr-drop it, Jerome."_

_"Oh, COME. ON."_

_"You don't want me to kill you too, right?"_

_"Ah, I guess. But then again, maybe I'll finally get somewhere, BE getting somewhere, have a wonderful time flying to Heaven and then fall right back down...-"_

_All this time, Jerome was taking steps closer and closer to Bruce, shiny shoes tap-tap-tapping on the bridge, two scarred fingers sliding along the incrusted barrier._

_"Down.."_

_Tap._

_"Down..."_

_Tap._

_He stopped inches away from Bruce's face, leaning forwards with one arm behind his back, holding up the gun, dropping the gun into Bruce's outstretched hand._

_"Down."_

_"Thank you."_

_"See?! Wasn't gonna do anything! Only you coulda given me some time to at least, oh, I dunno, question him?"_

_"You can't. I knocked him out before you started your torturing session. I need to send him back to the G.C.P.D. now and Gordon will take care of it."_

_"You used to call him Jim."_

_"Yeah, used to."_

_A howling sound torn straight out of the bundle of skin laying close behind Jerome stumbled up and came crashing down the walkway, his enormous arms swinging  and sweat pooling around his torn overalls to create a patch of darker grey. He was running all right, running so hard that if not for the fact that Jerome got taken down with him it would've been comical._

_"No-"_

_The_ _walkway groaned, shifted underneath the three persons’ feet and creaked straight down, making Jerome and Matches slide to the left, towards the vats of chemicals._ _Bruce launched himself downhill and grabbed the barrier, the other hand snatching Jerome's in time. He was laughing! He giggled and cackled, glancing down to look at the pot of bubbling, hazardous crap. He laughed harder and harder, more and more until his whole frame was positively shaking, his leg kicking and twitching whilst the idiot on the end holding on for dear life begged for mercy, and then fell into the mists._

_"FUCK! Now THAT'S what you call a headline! What a burn!"_

_"Jerome-"_

_"Get em to hashtag, 'roasted'."_

_"JEROME!"_

_"Huh?"_

_"You need to pull yourself up, I can't.. rghh... hold..on.. for much longer.."_

_Bruce's fingers twisted and the leather scrapes against his palm in an attempt to grip on. He plants a boot on the platform and pulls at Jerome’s clammy hand._   _The platform only protests and creaks more, the other side holding up the bridge crumbling sending pieces of cement into bubbling vats of ACE._

_"Shit, shit, shit, we gotta move!"_

_The metal beams groaned and squealed again and only dipped further into the metal vats, sending ear piercing richochets around the factory. Jerome abruptly stops laughing, panting with effort, his hand clenching tighter against Bruce's. He coughs out another laugh, ending in a grunt of effort that wrenches at Bruce's chest and only pushes him to try again, his whole body screaming with effort._

_"No, no, no, no, no, there must be some other way-"_

_"Bruce.."_

_"I'm not letting you die, I'm not letting you die, not after today, not after ever.."_

_"Bruce."_

_"You need to just keep pushing a little harder, plant your foot on the ledge-"_

_"BRUCIE!"_

_Bruce's head snapped up to meet Jerome's piercing eyes. They were red and rimmed with pale blue from lack of sleep as usual, and bloodshot too, but never, never, and Bruce feared the day it'd break him. He was crying. He was smiling, smiling so wide his dimple showed up, the good kinda smile, but clear trickling salt was flowing out the corners of his eyes and dripping into the vat. Like a broken pipe, one that could not be fixed._

_"D_ _o me a favour? Just one..."_

_"Wh-what...?-"_

_"Run. Ya dumbass." He choked on his own spit, and then spat it into the pool beneath. It fizzled in response._

_"I’ll be on...the other side."_

_And then he let go._

 

_His arm slipped free, untangling his scarred hand from Bruce's gloved one._

_The platform completely crumbled. For one second, Bruce wanted to stay. He wanted to stay and fall and die with Valeska, because why not, the other side is better, the other side is always better. But shock sealed his mind, denial arrived faster than anger._

_He didn't deserve to die in a vat of chemicals, he deserved to burn for eternity. He wanted to sit there and watch his fucking flesh fizzle at a campfire and maybe roast a bird on the remains, because Jerome wasn't there to watch the campfire with him._

_He heard his laugh, muffled by the cloak of steam circling around the metal tankards._

_He heard it grow empty and fade away like an echo._

_He didn't even get to see that blank face sink. And suddenly, everything seemed to turn white. The high-pitched ringing in his ears didn't compare to the throbbing of his head as Bruce turned, and ran to the other side with all he had left, too shocked to cry._

 

 

 


	2. 1-1

_"So...."_

_The man stepped closer, closing the distance between him and the line up of bound inmates._

_P_ _ick_ _'n Mix huh, they really weren't joking. Different shapes and sizes, some crushed, some hiding behind a layer of sprinkles just how horrible of a person they really are._

_A suede coat brushed around blistered ankles in pointy polished heels. He swerved in the direction of the largest, tallest one._

_He had a half-shaved head and some makeshift eyepatch slapped over the left side of his face. The shorter man got real close, each step he took was agonizingly slow._

_Their noses touched, and he grinned, baring his teeth at the patient. Eyepatch man found this infuriating because the poor runt seemed to gain a burst of newfound confidence and only started fighting against his restraints harder._ _The man whistled and back-walked and bounced away towards the tiring workbench._

_He picked up two defibrillators, grimacing as he lifted them up from the station. He held them up high, showed them off, and turned to face the inmates._

_I watched their faces melt as the man giggled and clanged the contraptions together, causing sparks of electricity to fly and fizzle out._ _I watched their entire being of state and sanity crumble away as he revved up the voltage and only kept walking. Towards eyepatch man, the arms of his cloak fell down when he raised his arms._

 _The skin was blinding, and I kept thinking about the red and blue lines, everyone has them, we all have them, but where were his?_ _Nowhere to be found, the red and blue lines. I couldn't see them, why doesn't he have them?_

 

_"Gentlemen, a pleasure to be working with you."_

 

_Eyepatch man couldn't comprehend English. Hell, even if Arkham offered a damn tutoring session an hour a day he wouldn't understand the words right now. But there is such a thing as basic human instinct, which pops up every now and then. When you're excited. When you're sad._

_When you're scared._

_When Eyepatch man's temples closed up, his face flickered briefly. Cracking the neck, frying the skull. And low and behold, I saw the guy's face while he was doing it. He looked up from under the Trilby hat he was wearing and he looked right at me, like he knew what I was thinking. It wasn't the face that creeped me out, the face was quite pleasant, to be honest. It was the look. Those dark, hollow eyes. Empty. I looked into them, and I saw, nothing. No peace, no lies, no emotion of any kind. And he was smiling._

_His entire face was taut and nearing translucent, and his lips were raw and peeling, his whole mouth was bleeding._

_Those eyes are what keep me awake at night, and search for me in the day. Hunting me down. Sniffin me out. But why am I scared of nothing? No matter contained in those glassy pupils, yet I feel his gaze still on me as he slid eyepatch man's head out of the machine, and slid another guys head in, a malnourished fella. This one was a bit louder._

 

_"Please! Please! Oh no, God, oh please no no no no no GET AWAY FROM ME, WHY ARE You doing this, GET AWAY FROM ME-"_

_"Shhhhhhh....."_

 

_He sandwiched the two defibrillators on either side of the guy's head, like cooking up some baloney, and his hands were shaking. He was still looking at me, by the way. Then he dipped back under the hat. The gargled wails of the patient, and then the room cut dark. His laughter died out with it, and melted into something much, much darker._

 

_"See you on the other side."_

 

                             ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Bruce woke with a splitting headache, immediately sitting up to cradle his head in his hands. He rubbed the sleep dust from his eyes and gritted his teeth together.

Well, it was payback for midnight alcohol sessions. Alfred's choices of alcohol. From all those charity dinners, which he's had the bitter comfort of never going to again.

The house was freezing. He'd retired to bed without a blanket, because covering himself was the last thought when you'd spent several hours drowning in prosecco and breaking champagne glasses. Plus, there was no one stopping him. He wanted this.

He kept the curtains drawn and walked past, strode into the living room after throwing on an old musty robe. The grandfather clock read forty seven minutes past twelve. It's a strange feeling to dismiss something that you've done for so long. Like going to work or having lunch or talking to a friend. He no longer felt guilty about missing breakfast, he no longer felt bothered.

He padded downstairs into the kitchen, and peeked into the open cabinet. A couple of smashed bottles and spilt wine and the full on realization of what he had committed last night hit him.

He crouched down to pick up the pieces and swore when a shard of glass jabbed the heel of his foot and his eyes met the swinging telephone hanging off the table edge, and concluded that the white noise was not just a part of his throbbing migraine but the phone off the receiver. He slammed it back down on it's handset. 

 

_message from Alfred Pennyworth_

 

_message received at 11:15 PM_

 

_BEEEEEP_

 

 _Hello, Master Bruce. It's Alfred. Alfred Pennyworth. Oh, tsk, the voicemail thing says that already, doesn't it? Stupid me. Well, that's assuming you haven't blocked me. It's been a bloody long time, hasn't it?  Six and a half years. Hope you haven't replaced me, have you. Listen, I just wanted to check in, and say that um...I hope you're holding up well. And one last request, don't go raiding the cabinet. And don't go sulking around inside the house, it's bad for your health._ _And for all the silly decisions we've made-... that's all I got._

_Gotham needs you, Bruce. Gotham needs Batman at the least._

 

_BEEEEEP_

 

_delete message?_

 

Bruce stabbed the asterix three times and left the mess in the kitchen for some other unworldly presence to clean up. He did do one thing right by Alfred after everything. Alfred never tells, he advises. Not until last last last last last last last year, when things really hit rock bottom of the sewer. Alfred packed all his things up in a leather suitcase Bruce's mother gave him, with a sterling clasp and brass handle.

Bruce set him up with a house on the far side of town, away from the mess located central. He asked Bruce if he was going to find someone else.

Bruce didn't answer. He'd watched Alfred leave in one of the cars and the next day the car was driven back by a company, signed under Alfred C. Pennyworth. Two weeks later, Alfred had moved back to England, because who employs butlers anymore? And Bruce was shoulder deep in folders of employees, waiting to assist at the infamous Wayne Manor.

No-one has stepped foot in this house that he didn't already know of. Selina dropped in maybe once every couple months, but he kept the windows all locked and the drapes down so to be honest, he wasn't sure who came around here anymore. He'll never find another person who'll be willing to go through all of that with him ever again, not for the money, but because they were just loyal. He'll never find another butler who'll care about him just because he did. And no-one will ever understand anything they went through.

In short, he'll never find another Alfred. 

 

**"This morning, several patients at Arkham Asylum are missing again as they appeared to have escaped in the dead of night. The G.C.P.D are still working on it, but no leads so far, will this be another major downfall, or could this be a chance for the one and only Batman to-"**

 

He clicked off the TV and rose from the sofa, to open the curtains up and catch a glimpse of the brewing storm shielding the sun away from Gotham. Maybe it was time. Gotham was a city dipped halfway underneath the red realm, and it would only be a matter of time before it was fully submerged.

Now he remembered, it was the adrenaline that kept him going. And he wouldn't stop, he couldn't stop, Everything was crumbling around him and he left Jerome to die, but when he finally stopped and fell to his knees, he felt...nothing. Matches was dead, and in the downfall, it lead to collapsing his life too. For years, everything was underwater, while the city outside of Wayne's eyeline burned alive. Matches won.

He drove Bruce to the edge of all things, which in turn, drove Alfred away, and drove everyone away. Wayne Enterprises used to be a force to be reckoned with, now in shambles. What would his parents say? He felt a burning sense of chagrine as the realization sent him relapsing into the headache. 

What would that bastard say? 

 

 _Well, kill some sons of bitches. Cut some limbs off and toss em like balloons, because limbs are like pills. They don't necessarily_ do anything _and it fucking kills, but you hope it would!_ Bruce managed a thin woeful smile, and downed a shot of leftover bourbon just sitting on the windowsill. After J died, it really taught him things. For example- 

 

Everything is two sides of a coin. Just because you’re East of Gotham doesn’t mean everything’s fine in the West. 

 

Maybe it was time to make a comeback. He wanted to forgive people, to take control of so many things he'd so carelessly let go, because this city may have  no heroes, but it does need all the saviours it can get. He will be a better man. He will be needed again. 

 

  

                        ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 The captain marched up the stairs and dropped a binder, halfway filled, onto Jim's desk. "Five more disappearances. Are you serious?"

"Yep." Jim yawned and ran a hand through his hair, sighing heavily and reluctantly getting back to examining the situation at Arkham with the recent pictures taken, courtesy of the new Forensic Examiner, Goldsworth. 

"Have you even went to Arkham to check it out by yourself?"

"Yeah, well, Harvey told me to wait until he got better so we could go with more backup, but, tch-" 

"I'LL send in the backup team. Harvey has been off sick for two weeks now, so it must be pretty serious. We've delayed this case long enough, the last thing you want is the residents getting stressed over runaway sociopaths. Get on it, now."

"Yes, ma'am." She nodded and slipped him a piece of yellow paper. 

"Here's a list of those missing so far. Ask around." She demanded, swivelling around to clomp back down the stairs and slamming the door to the office.

Hell, that was what it was. Hell. Why would anyone even- never mind, he didn't want to try thinking about it, because for all he knew, Gotham's criminals always have a reason to bring up. He considered calling Harvey again, just to check up on him and see how things were running. He was grateful for that drunk-head, managing the interview recordings back at home and stuff.

The thought irked him, though, played in the back of his head. Harvey Bullock, stubborn mutt, has never missed a day of work in the time that Jim knew him. 

"Must be pretty serious if he's bedridden." She shook her head dismissively, sorting through a pile of papers and tossing out a pair of handcuffs. He got in the old rattled up mustang, turned the engine on and sped downtown, destination: Arkham. The radio crackled and buzzed, breaking into the casual low humming of a song. 

 

_**I know, I know** _

**_You beloooong too soooomebody neeew_ **

**_But toniiight_ **

**_You beloONG, to me...._ **

 

Jim hastily switches it off, uncomfortably shifting in the leather seat and his knuckles turning white on the steering wheel as he continued his descent towards Arkham. 

 

                                 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

He arrived in the nick of time, slamming the car door shut at 12:47, clanging on the gate to alert the security guard in a state of trance.The place looked as it normally did, barren as a wasteland. He could see the blue shirt stretched over an expanse of shoulder, and he had his arms crossed, leaning against the brickwork. He hit the bars again. 

 

"Hey!" No response. No wonder this place got a load of beings shipped out all the time. Jim's eyes travelled down to the ring of keys around the guards belt, just in view behind the gate. He slipped an arm through the crusted iron bars, extending his hand out further for his fingertips to curl one of the keys, and tugged as hard as he could. 

The body fell short in front of the gate, blood pooling around the slashes embedded deep into the neck, stomach and head, and probably back, considering the new spurt of blood that splattered out from underneath. Parts of the man's hair was scraped back, revealing the pink scalp, and thin scratches tore down the length of both of his arms. He felt a cold nerve in his body. If the guard is dead...

"Oh, shit-" He dialled the Head's number. 

"Cap'n? I think we need that backup team, now." Jim shoved the phone into his backpocket and began to drag the guard towards him by the leg, grimacing as he managed to unhook the keys once he got close enough, trying not to touch the stained shirt or any of the clothing.

The gate unlatched, and he sprinted towards the entrance, head pounding full force as he got near and saw a bus operator crushed under one of Arkham Transport's wheels, still gurgling blood and his limbs twitching weakly. He forced himself to turn around, keep going. He made it to the doors and pushed hard. A buzz, and the doors unlocked. _So the security system's down too. "_ GCPD, anyone there?"

Jim keeps his hand on the hilt of his gun, and walks. Down the flickering hallways, he passes several more police officers, three other guards. All had viceral scratches littering parts of their body, but the most prominent was the neck, head, eyes, back and arms. He briefly wondered for a moment if this was Selina, but quickly discarded the thought when his phone rings. The sound is eerie loud in the corridors. He jumped at a patient shaking the bars in his cell. Why the hell would someone go to all this trouble and keep the inmates- Harvey? 

 

"Listen, Jim, you're at Arkham, right?" He wheezed, his voice on the other end sounded weak, frail. 

"Harvey. Are you oka-"

"It's the Wayne Manor, they've got Bruce in the police station, he's injured, but-"

"What happened?"

"A bomb. Set up in the back of the courtyard."

 

Jim hung up, swore, and thought about turning back. But he was too far gone now, and he really didn't want to see Bruce again after the recollection of the last few events, shortly after Valeska's death. But the kid was injured, was a petty brawl from three years ago actually going to stop him? 

Jim raced back to the mustang, his chest feeling like there was a hand constantly pressing down on him and his side pierced every now and then and everything just fucking compresses down onto him as he gets into the car and accelerates, making a beeline for the police station, swerving through traffic all the way. Fuck, who was going to lead the police back up? Never mind that, he needed to see Bruce. Who cares what happened three fucking years ago, this was now, and he without Bullock, he was high strung all by himself, and an important member of Gotham needs assistance.

More so, it was Bruce Wayne. It was the long awaited Batman. The captain spots him from across the station with a phone nudged into the crook of her neck and click clacks over. "He's in the back, second in command is on his way to the scene with a search team." 

"Thank you." Jim slips around the backdoor and starts searching room and room. He didn't get far before catching sniffling sounds in an interview room. He brushed his fingers against the door and swung it open slightly. Course, that didn't stop it from squealing on it's rusty hinges.

Bruce sat up straight immediately and glared over the side of his shoulder, sitting hunched over in a metal fold-up chair. He was taller than the last time they'd met. Which was.. a long time ago. Jim chewed at the inside of his lip and waited for a polite yet brash request for him to leave. Nothing happened and neither talked. So, he pulled the other chair opposite beside himself, and sat down, taking his hands out his pockets and leaning against the table. The chair protested in a sound of grinding metal. "Bruce."

"...Detective Gordon."

"I'm sorry, I came as soon as I heard you were injured...you know about the...Harvey, how he is and the Arkham-"

"It's fine. I understand that."

"...I'm also sorry for everything else that has happened between us. I understand if you want me to take full responsibility and I will, because I know damn well, that it was my fault."

"Yes. You know damn well." A pause. "I appreciate the fact that you could put aside your dignity and conscience." Bruce stared up at the shrivelled ceiling. "I appreciate also that you came to me to make amends, because this thing we have is petty. I misjudged you. When they say you'll do anything for Gotham, I believed, and then that belief declined in anger after you got drunk and told me you couldn't find who killed my parents, do you remember that?"

"Yes. I do. But then I followed your advice. Did what I had to do."

"Everyone says that. I've known you for a really long time, and I know you mean it." Jim could still hear that bitter tone in his voice. He needed to get rid of it. He wasn't leaving until he did. So he pushes back the chair, ignoring the ear piercing friction it causes on the floor and looks down at Bruce holding his knee. And it made him angry. A destined man to fight against half the crime in Gotham, sitting there because of a bruised knee. He wanted to spit. 

"I'm sorry for telling you that Jerome was a bad idea. I'm sorry I did everything I could to stop you from keeping him in your house. I'm sorry I did all the dirty work I could handle to try and get Oswald to get him back to Arkham. Or worse, Blackgate. I'm sorry for stopping you from seeing him, for ignoring all the little clues I should've picked up on which I didn't, by the way, because I was trying to stop the people who were fighting Matches Malone rather than, Matches Malone. And I apologize for breaking most of our promises."

He held out a hand. Bruce stares at it for a long, long time, and then turns back to look at the detective in a trance of still trying to comprehend. It worked out better than he hoped, that's all. Maybe because it did go on for years. He stands up, returning the screeching scrape of the chair, the blanket falling off his shoulders, and grips Jim's hand firmly in his. 

"I'm trusting you." Jim manages a small smile on his behalf in relief. 

"To new beginnings."

They shake on it. 

Jim collapses his shoulders and lets out a puff of breath. Bruce holds the doorknob and turns away to go back to the car. "Bruce." He turns. "How's Alfred?"

"I don't know. He left a message this morning, back to.. military duties or whatever."

"Bruce."

"I'll call him when necessary! It's neutral, Gordon. We haven't exchanged a word in years." Jim cocked his head.

"Years?" Bruce sighed.

"I'll call him. It's time to make amends anyway. Told myself, said it myself."

"We got the Arkham case sitting out to dry in there. Might want to be making two calls."

"Yeah, well, don't get your hopes up."

 

 


	3. 1-2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the captain is an OC but don't get mad she doesn't affect anything at all. I like to stick to the original characters for stories unless I really think it would help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact - it used to be City Hall and then I changed it last minute. the idea still remains dw  
> 

**Time - 3:20 AM**

**Location - Outside Arkham Asylum**

**Two guards on patrol, one holding a danish pasty, the other holding a cup of coffee in each hand. This is not Harvey, I repeat, this is not Harvey**

 

"-yeah yeah, and ya know what he says ta me?"

"Mmhmm, what?"

"He says-" The guard stops short and nearly drops the packet. His friend follows his gaze. 

 

"Holy shi-" The other guard grabs the radio from his pal’s waist and clicks in, flapping a hand in his direction. "Go, go- call the nearest store to fix this shit, or something." They both take off, stumbling the direction of their patrol cars. He slams the door, plopping the danish packet onto the seat beside him. "This is Arkham Asylum’s first morning patrol round, Officer Terry Questo, we found..."

His voice becomes muffled by the roaring engines and coughs out fumes as both police cars kick into the sunrise, leaving the bright, red letters stained all over the brickwork of the Arkham.

 

**"HA HA HA."**

 

               — X X X X X X X X —

 

Jim stood before the spray painted laughter and circled the edge of his shirt. Unlike other days, it was unusually sunny, but Arkham’s structure cast a mocking shadow over East, expelling out like a vat of tar. Consuming all his thoughts, eating them up, stressing them out.

"Hey.." A disgruntled voice, and a pale hand weakly fell onto Jim’s shoulder. "Don’t beat yourself up about it-" Harvey clapped a hand over his mouth and keeled over, pulling a face but it looked like fucking agony. "Jesus, Harvey...go to the medical examiners, won’t you, you’re reduced to a cane at this point."

"No.."

"Yes, you are. Come, medical staff right there, I’ll help you." With a grunt, Harvey lifted his arm up and rested it around Jim’s shoulders.

"Juuust a lil further.... and..urgh, what happened?" He set them down on the side of the ambulance. "Oh, what the hell. I didn’t-" Barely managed to finish his sentence before grabbing his stomach protectively and leaning his head against the side.

"Gordon? We got a spray paint shop about a five minute drive outta here, might be the place they uh..." He gestured with a pen towards the HA HA HA. "Guy saw a potential suspect but won’t talk. Ask around."

"I’ll be there. Harvey, stay here, okay?"

"nnO can do! I’m going with you, I’ll be okay in the car."

"You might contaminate the scene."

"Hah hah, very funny. I'm going."

The store was not a five minute drive. He wasn't sure where those police came from, but it was on the other side of town and a good twenty minutes, plus 'asking around' several convenience stores. It didn't help much that Harvey was hollering threats from the car at the witnesses and Jim until they'd brought him inside to calm down. He half limped into the store and grabbed onto Jim's arm every now and then, both hobbering towards the cashier with grimace and thunder on their faces.

"Hello there, sirs, how can I help you- woaahh, okay then." As Jim whipped out the G.C.P.D badge.

"We are entitled to ask you questions to do with the recent missing Arkham patients and earlier this morning the vandalism of Arkham Asylum." The cashier crossed his arms. "And what makes you think I'll say anything about my customers? Business is already low around here, man! I ain't risking snitching on my customers! Talk to my boss about it." Harvey reached over the counter as much as he could and grasped the man's apron.

"Listen, punk. If you aren't going to be co-operative than I'm sure Jim over here'll be more than happy to beat it outta ya. I am sick, so. Also, who knows? Maybe _you're_ the one who did the job because if that's the case here.."

"No, no!.."

"Then the only thing we'll be talking to your boss about is employee hiring advice cause you'll be locked up a while. And we doubt that'll look very sparky on your CV, huh?"

"N-no..."

Harvey bared his teeth in a grin. "Then great! Tell Jim here what you know." Jim makes a face and nods in response. "S-so around eleven last night, I saw a man walk in, with a- ah, big leather coat and...one of those, pointy hats." 

"Like a witch's hat?"

"No no, like a, um.. detective's hat, the big ones that have an upside down boat on top and you can hide your face underneath it. He took it off in one of the aisles, but I don't know much else cause the cameras don't shoot colour. A-and his coat was covering his face."

"Okay, and how tall was this man?"

"Pfft, like... I dunno, six, six one..? Oh! And he bought this spray paint." He reached underneath the counter and pulled out a can with white comical letters splashed around the front.

 **Arty Craft Explosives! Comes in RED, GREEN, PURPLE! Collect them all to make a frenzy!** Jim turned the spray paint tube around in his hand. "...nice." 

"You can only get it off with this cleaner thing. Take it as complementary." He tossed several squat cans, similar size to that of a tuna can. The label was also courtesy of Arty Craft Explosives. There was this pungent smell seeping out from the tins. It reminded him of the waste dump near Gotham, the smell causing his face to sting and his stomach lurched. Harvey fell to his knees and wheezed, screaming out and shutting his eyes.

"Harvey? Hey Harvey!" His partner was coughing and choking violently, so much that he toppled over, arms around his stomach and grinding his teeth. His eyes were flowing with a liquid which began running down his face.

"Harvey? Harvey, come on, we need to get you to the hospital, quick!" He scooped up the piles of cleaning supplies and ran outside to dump them in the boot, leaving a window down so the smell doesn't fill the whole car and dragged Harvey inside into the passenger seat. He snatches up the phone and fumbles at the keypad, pressing a foot down on the pedal. "Goddammit." The radio whirrs and taps itself into the news station. Jim stabs it off. It doesn't. "What the hell..?"

 

 **kkshsh. Attention. This is the Gotham News Central airing live with a message to the whole of Gotham. We insist you listen to this message. This is not a drill. We repeat, this is not a - kvvvvshshshshhshsh-ksshshskshs-** yeah, yeah. Not a drill, this ain't a drill. Whatever. We get it. HEYYY GOTHAM! Home sweet home! I missed ya loads! 

 

               - X X X X X X X X -

 

Another gunshot blew clear into the ceiling, missing short of a wire. The crowd of news agents and whatever the fuck is mixed in with them- news reporters, presenters, coffee deliverers, they're all here, most who ended up in this unfortunate room. The cloaked man fired off another shot, hands pointed to the sky. Because after all, the sky's the limit. A row of teetering Arkham patients followed up, holding machine guns or pistols and knives. Bullets danced around the room in a frenzy, and soon after, no whimpers or annoying cries were heard.

There was just spray paint, tons of spray paint and a few balloons, and one woman sitting all by herself at the front, with a blanked out gaze and quivering lip. Her eye twitched as the man moved closer, his shadow towering over the desk, and pulled his face up to hers. "Hmmm, is that Fahrenheit? Because you smell... hot." He nuzzled closer to her ear and inhaled deeply, and gripped the mic piece, bending it so it was facing both the woman and him. She was still tilted to the side, her neck craned far back. "Say a few words, will ya?" She nodded, the side of her face felt paralysed and her hands felt...cold. Her eyes stung and her teeth burned. He cocked the gun and lifted it next to her head. "Don't be shy." 

 

               - X X X X X X X X -

 

 Bruce stared at the sight that unfolded before him. The woman was on the side of the screen, and her head hung. The man in the Trilby hat pinched it between his thumb and index, and whipped the hat off the top of his head. Bruce heard his own sharp intake of breath. He was wearing a mask. 

"Got ya, didn’t I? HEHEHAHAHAHHAHAH!"

 

               - X X X X X X X X -

"You took a toll after a few years, huh. What a beating. That pollution is- whoo! Needa work on that." He kissed his gloved fingertips.  Bruce stood in front of the TV and watched the broadcast roll. The pit of his stomach felt like it was on fire at every pitched word forced out of the man’s throat. He started wondering. And that was scary at times—

"Anyways, I reckon I should introduce myself to the living, breathing corpses." Bruce clenched his fist and felt his palms getting hot as he uncurled and curled in his hands again and again, desperate for a distraction.

But he just had that talk with Jim..? His chest heaved and he felt like he was going to burst with all the vigour and tension. All the horrors of what happened at the ACE plant poured into his brain and flooded the back of his head, drowning Bruce in all the memories that he'd tried so hard to forget for eight years.

His teeth gnawed at the inside of his bottom lip, biting a bump that had been there for a while, running his tongue around the sides but no matter what he did his mouth still felt dry and his head flared. If he could see inside, he thought it'd probably have warning lights blaring off, red alarms streaking to the blood pounding in his ears, and the annoying, white noise was starting to come up too.

But he forced himself, slowly and eventually coming to terms, willing away the throbbing feeling until the heartbeat sounds became distant. 

"You can call me.." The man leaned in inches away from the screen, like he was going to jump out of it. Bruce stepped back. He then took steps closer, feet sunken into the carpet to look, and if you squinted you could make out two, dark beady eyes behind the holes of the mask. 

"The Joker."

Putting emphasis on the 'r' at the end.

"And this! This is my lovely crew of people that Arkham so kindly lent me! Hehehahahaaahahh smile! Awh, look at that." Joker held a thumb to the side of an inmate's mouth and pulled at the skin till it formed a half smile. The victim stood patiently with stoic manner, eyes empty showing zero signs of remorse or any emotion. This is what happened to those inmates. Bruce's lip curled at the sickening behaviour of the equally sick, sick man. Out of the screen someone was moaning in pain.

The masked assailant twisted his head and brought the barrel close to the reporter. Young man in a suit, blood already everywhere around his shoulder. "Hey hey! Pull the camera over here." The camera panned in closer. Bruce didn't look away as he saw blood splatter all over the screen and watched it get wiped away by Joker. He shook his head. 

"Some people have no manners. Anyways- ah, I just wanted to say that you better hurry up, ladies and gents, you got a few hours before I start killing people. Trust me, it's gonna be a BLAST."

 

" **AHAAHAHH, EEEHEHEHAHAHAHHAHAAH-"**

He's gone. Jim wrenched the radio off and contemplated his next move in silence, face set between questioning and panicked. _"It's gonna be a BLAST."_ He pulled out his phone and punched in the Captain's number. Harvey let out an impatient groan in the seat, his eyes squeezed shut and a hand protecting his stomach. "Wh-what's going on..." He barely made eye contact and pressed down on the brakes, a bead of sweat making it's way down his shirt collar rubbing at the back of his neck. The hospital  wasn't far from Arkham, thank God, but the police station was on the other side of the city. Backup troupes were already patrolling at Arkham, cleaning up the mess. Arkham..? _"It's gonna be a BLAST."_ The city hall? The Gotham Gazette? Dammit, what? Which place? 

"Jim? I just heard the broadcast, everyone in Gotham did, I've got police covering several important locations and buildings, inside and out, the Strike Force are doing rounds about Central, are you almost done?"

"I've gotta send Harvey to the hospital. Something's happened and the condition worsened."

"We have no idea what the Joker's next move will be, I mean I've dragged witnesses in and out but we're not getting anywhere-"

"He said it's gonna be a blast. I think I know what he's trying to do. But even so, we'll never get to the landmark in time. We do know he vandalized the Arkham wall-"

"Arkham Asylum. He's going to blow up Arkham Asylum with all the patients in it. All the forces are located central and on the other side of the city and we'll never make it there in time. You're taking Harvey to the hospital, so that's a no. This is a disaster."

Jim slipped a hand around his collar and pulled at it, shaking his head and taking in a sharp breath. "Not if I can help it." He hung up and dialled the number again. The ringtone fell flat and then the gruff voice picked up from the other end. "Gordon."

"Hey Bat? I'm sending you a location."

 

 

Bruce launched himself across the gap separating two buildings, two police cars close behind en route to Arkham Asylum. He tried to preoccupy his mind meanwhile, the thawing wind nipping at the lower half of his face, and he bit his lower lip until it bled long after the broadcast had stopped. Everything about this felt off, and the feeling of turning back taunted him in the back of his mind. Bruce knew well enough he couldn't; he was THE Batman, and even before that, THE Bruce Wayne. He always wanted this.

His heart was racing, all his thoughts are locked in his head so that they won't apply to his actions in the showdown. But the thing is, as much as he tried to ignore all of it, shut it out, force it away, there's always that doubt lingering around. _You found him. You found him. Go to him. I should've called Alfred like I said I would. Why did he do this? What's the motive? I know his motive. If my calculations served me loyal, then his objective is the same as Jerome's. Total Fucking Chaos._ And everything about this was saying wrong wrong wrong but he had to do this. He was always powerless to Valeska, even if it wasn’t him. But it could be....?

It's been so long and the city has died because of his own selfish needs. He saw Jim's face during that confrontation. He looked so worn out, tired. Jim got in touch later that night, sent the info. And then early this morning, Bruce was updated by the Gotham Gazette on some black and white blurred snapshot of the vandalism on Arkham.

Only a few minutes left before he reaches the destination. He could've taken the car, but... oh well. He wanted at least some people to see him. Flying over the rooftops, scaling the sides of apartments, breaking barriers and sneaking over windows. He wanted Gotham to know that he was back and he wasn't going to let this killer take J's place. _What? Isn't that- no. I can't think about that right now. My priority is Joker._ He picked up the pace, the wind like needles sparking across his skin tight suit. The cloak billowed out behind him, slowing down his momentum and cast a shadow over the streets of Gotham. This man is a mere copy. He's using Jerome's legacy!

Those thoughts came to an abrupt stop. He skidded to a halt. The gap. It opened up so wide and the drop went down into an unknown remote little street darker than Bruce's cape. The blood rush pumping through his temples, his entire body felt like it overheating. Like he was burning alive. He took a deep breath and sprinted towards it. A chance! Bruce's feet touched the ledge and he was going to plummet- he managed to crouch and grab a hold on the ledge with his fingertips. He pushed off and continued his course. Glancing at his watch. _Destination is - two minutes away._

"I'm comin' to get you, copycat.....I'm comin' to get ya."

 

                                                    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 Joker sat atop the Arkham, tappin the heels of his feet against the brickwork. He breathed in deeply the smell of smoke and gas and fire and sickness and medicine and all things nice. Soon, the police are gonna get here. And there is nothing they can do about this. Because for a fact, if one of those old geezers had 20/20, they would see that he was holding up a remote. And that remote- connects to a bomb, hidden deep inside the cellars of the asylum underground. A bomb that can blow up all the patients, if not half, and destroy every piece of evidence. Oh? Joker held up a hand and cupped his earlobe. Is that?

_Police sirens?_

Ohhh. Looks like some arrived early. Well, that's a bummer. The masked man knocked his heels against the side in anticipation and stood up with a grunt. "Welp. Looks like a good time is a time is now. Sorry boys. But you _gotta go_." Joker made a face, scrunching up his features and waving them away with the remote in hand. "C'mon. Shoo, shoo! The top floor is the best floor, okay? It means you won't get hurt."

The prisoners dragged themselves in a line towards the hatch and jumped down, one by one. Even if they do hear the police and Joker himself talking it through, they can't do shit. They wait to die, because that hatch is locked from the outside and will be by Joker, and that floor is for deliveries and failed experiments. Sooo... no exit downstairs either. I mean, why would ya? They'd be blown to juice anyway! HAHAHAHHA! Getting rid of the evidence. He didn't wanna risk any of those pipsqueaks in interrogation, that's just too much.

At last, the Strike Force director. "DROP THE WEAPON!" He raised his eyebrows behind his shield.

"It's a REMOTE. Geezum, they really weren't kidding..." The director's arm wavered. The several other strike members had taken position and held snipers at the ready. Urgh. They all looked the same. Maybe a couple more tricks he had up his sleeve could fix that.

"Listen up, punks! Unless you wanna kill the whole household of insanity, then I suggest you put your weapons down and stop trying to look all _tough_. My thumb is right here, director. My thumb is right here. You shoot me, my thumb loosens, and then...boom, boom, boom."

Her lips trembled and she craned her neck, sucking in a deep breath through her nose. Oh my god. At least she could've _tried_ to act. The wind made goose bumps clump in his bleached arms. The scuff of sole on gravel. He knew it before it was coming. A shadow fell, smothered his view and his world turned sideways, the side of his face smacking the ground, knocking the breath from his lungs on impact. They rolled around, showering soot and clouds of dirt and coated their clothes and faces as well as every crevice in the ears and into their noses.

The remote was knocked out of the Joker's hand and the two opponents watched it slide away to the other side and stop. The masked man trapped firmly beneath Bat hissed and extended an arm to gash at his face, but he drew back just in time for the cracked nails to only graze the top of his cowl.

It was acceptable enough as Joker writhed and wriggled, yanking out his right arm and latching his hand onto Bat's left bicep. He squeezed hard, and Bruce bared his teeth in a snarl in the effort to strain his grip on the slippery criminal underneath, eyes glaring straight into the mocking face of an anonymous man.

Bat brought his right fist down against the mask. The wood split in one point near the jugular, causing several other smaller lines to trail slowly in all directions extending from the pressure point.

Joker kneed him in the face, sending Bat flying backwards. He crawled on top was about to land a punch to his face but instead found a numbness lower down his chest and pain blossoming in his stomach and scrabbled away, making a beeline for the control on the other side of the roof.

Below, Bruce could hear thumping and desperate moans of help and shouting. Every step was mirrored with a fist against the floor underground. The sound made his skin crawl with pin pricks and needles. Joker on the other hand was nearly there. Bat could hear the wheezing and dragged out breathing projected out from behind the man's mask.

_I'm almost...there....yes. YES_

 

**Not today, you son of a bitch.**

 

With one launch up from the ground Bruce skimmed through the air in an arc and Joker's spine ended up as the landing pad. He snaked his right arm around Joker's neck and barred it with his left, and pulled him back. The assailant started to choke and wretch behind his mask. "Drop it! Drop the remote!" Joker’s hand clenched the remote tighter and snarled behind his cover, his breaths coming through heavy and unstable. Like he was holding in a laugh.

"Well, if it isn't the great, amazing Batman. What an honour to be strangled by you. But not before I do this-" 

"NO!" Joker's thumb pressed down hard on the remote. Nothing happened. He stabbed it again. Bruce had released his grip now and was standing a few feet away watching Joker try again and again, swearing and stomping his foot. "How...you...!" 

 

BANG

 

A bullet grazed Joker's face, well, his mask. It was going to hit his face. Bruce lifted a boot and struck him right on the back of the knee, the man hit the roof on his knees. The shot whizzed past cleanly. Bruce grasped hold of his jaw and ripped the mask off. 

 

"Jerome?" He rasped. A  hairless, ghostly pale face stared back at him, dark hollow eyes with black shadow smeared around them. His eyes flickered for a second and then his eyeballs started shaking from left to right, darting around, analysing his situation. And then he started laughing again. In the most irritated fashion. An arm shot out and clipped the side of Bruce's throat before Bruce whacked an elbow to the side of his face and the world sank back down into a pool of squid ink oblivion. 

 

 

                                                    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

"Bruce!" He turned around with caution, an arm raised and then dropping it at the sight of Jim's tired face. "How did it go?" They sat down in an awkward manner, there was so much that needed to be talked about, yet so much missing that should enable a casual conversation. Like the ones they used to have. Bruce chewed the inside of his mouth again, his lips pressed together in a thin line to form a frown. "It was fine. The Joker, or whatever he calls himself, is I've been told transferred to Arkham?" 

"Yes. He was." Jim turned his head and glanced at the TV. It was a news reporter standing outside Arkham Asylum and she was positioned right in front of the spraypaint. He was surprised they had any employees left to even report this mess. There was a ton of people there too, they seemed to be taking pictures.

"Looks like you're a hero once again." Bruce smirked, and picked up his cup of tea from one of the two saucers he set on the table. "I wouldn't say that. I'm still not completely done, Jim. There're still things I need to take care of." The lukewarm liquid tasted sour in his mouth, and the china made contact with his bruised lip uncomfortably. He thought of Alfred, Selina.

The unnerving man who calls himself the Joker.

He didn't bare a huge resemblance to Jerome. His face was so knackered it was hard to tell though. There were... some features. He snapped back into reality, where Jim was staring into space. "I would like a report on the Joker." Jim was now staring at Bruce.

"The masked man? I mean, I can see what Harvey can pull up, we can question the patients, but I'll doubt we'll get anything. The new captain who's stepping in for Harvey already has her boundaries pushed to the limit." 

"Then she must be new to Gotham." Jim scoffed in response and set down his cup. He stood up and straightened out his suit and clapped Bruce on the shoulder. Before he left, "Why do you want to know?" In return he received an expressionless face which was morphing into a look of determination and a glint of something in Bruce's eyes. "I think he might have something to do with Jerome." 

 

 


	4. 1-3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY

The skies were dark and shrouded over with the early morning mist, what little lands left grass grew spiky and crackled, today they were tipped with dew. As usual, the weather forecast predicted rain, normal civilians were at work or hiding anxiously in the comfortable space of their apartment. Jim Gordon stalked down the dimly lit corridors of the G.C.P.D. The lights flickered, accompanying his shadow looming over the walls and folding along the corners. His dread, maybe. Most of them have no idea; you can't see depravity until you leave decency.

Meanwhile, a man in a bat suit could be heard three winding passages away, slamming his hands down on the rickety table terrorizing a man with a gaunt figure, cutting jawline and bright, green hair. "TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW!" Joker wheezed, his head down and the unruly nest of tangles dangled limply around his face.

He pulled himself as close as he could to Bruce's face, his eyes wide and grinning maliciously.

"I am just.....me. I am not...this..Je-rome....Alaska-"

Bruce gripped the rough material of Joker's overalls and snarled. "Well if you can't tell me anything let's try yesterday, shall we?" He released Joker who was giggling quietly to himself, his shoulders quivering. "Why did you hypnotize all those men? What was this show all for? Because it didn't last long." 

"Men? Those aren't men anymore, Bat-man. Those...are...bodies, they are shells, they have none, of their....past self inside, well, what hasn't been shattered anyway. They simply...obeyed."

He snorted and wiped his nose comically with one hand struggling to control itself chained to the table. He waited, after a minute or two the man seated across the table's laughter died down and he slumped back down low in his chair, the metal grinding against the floor making Bruce's face twitch.

"Who are you really?" 

For a moment the room was shocked into silence. Joker looked Bruce in the eye and winked. 

"I was gonna say you already knew me, but unfortunately that would be a lie. I can tell we’re strangers, because I have no recollection of someone named Jerome Valeska."

It was sensational to watch Batman, vigilante fall back disheartened. It would be even more thrilling if he could see what was under the mask...

 But even when he's trapped in a cage half a city apart from cowardly civilisation, he could schedule a leave. All morning, he's sat here, listening to a swanky guy with a body snipped straight from a glossy magazine cover talk things over, until he managed to drive him up the wrong side of the wall and make him really, really mad.

He'd been shouting all sorts of shit, mainly about someone called Jerome, and a complicated hell and a quarter surname. And then the normal, boring police questions, like where he was, why he did it, what, when, how, why, where whatever, blah, blah, blah. It was getting boring, his brain was caving in.

The door banged open and Jim marched into the room. "I'll take over from here." He nodded to Bruce. He leaned over to unlock the handcuffs, moving away with a look of disgust after Joker leaned over and breathed in his face in an exaggerating fashion. In one swift move he grasped Joker by his arm and hauled him up, and then shoved him in the direction of the door after locking his arms behind his back. At the door, the captain was standing nervously, and tried to give a stern look towards the criminal, she nodded to Jim and they took off down the corridor, her heels tap-tap-tapping on the cleaned floor. Tap. Tap. Tap. Bruce squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, blinking, and suddenly he felt the familiar itching, hot and cold chills scattering over his body. 

"That one's getting transferred to Blackgate, hopefully." Jim spoke, coming to stand by Bruce. They watched as the pair disappeared down the hall, but the endless laughing could be heard lingering in the corridor. Antagonizing. Mocking. Traumatizing. Haunting. Bruce tried for months to lock up the memories of Jerome. Lock them up, like the Court of Owls tried to do to his memories. That felt like so long ago. "Bruce?" Jim was giving him a concerned stare. He cleared his throat. 

 

"Yes. Hopefully." 

 

 

                         -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

**"Hehehow did I do, doc? HAHAHAHAH!"**

**"Shut up! Move the patient."**

 

**\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

 

"So where did they put him?" Bruce asked. His was on the phone with Jim again. He was aware of how many times he'd called to check up on the recent criminal who has been put behind bars, and this seemed a flimsy excuse, but if he was anything like Jerome, they didn't want a repeated escape. He kept going through everything that happened. 

_"I was gonna say you already knew who I was, but unfortunately that would be a lie."_

Who was he? A person who was uncannily similar to someone he was close to, dare he call a friend? He's dead. He saw him fall into that pit of green. He had nightmares taunting him, waking him in a cold bed with his back sticky with sweat and his heart beating faster than it should. He tried to picture Jerome crawling out of the chemical pool, maybe shuffling in a zombified manner towards central Gotham. He stopped sleeping because of it.

If the damage hadn't gotten to his brain already, maybe he'd started towards Wayne Manor. Maybe he just forgot him. Jerome wouldn't wait long. He'd propose a giant show. Make Bruce look for him, get him frustrated and annoyed and laugh himself hysterical and then finally reveal himself. No one could copy the flair he'd strike with. Not even this doupleganger. 

_"They put him in Arkham Asylum."_

"Are you serious?" 

_"I know right. The place he just attacked, it isn't safe there. I tried to get them to change it, but so far it looks like he's stuck there."_

"Do they even have any employees left?" 

 _"I doubt it."_ Jim replied grimly. _"Between you and me, I'm not sure how long the captain is going to last. She's going insane herself."_ He glanced behind himself. "The press are piling in demanding interviews, I have to go now." 

"Bring the files around to Wayne Manor tomorrow."

_"Of course."_

 

             -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

NAME - UNKNOWN

ALIAS - JOKER 

APPEARANCE - 6'3"/ PALE, THIN, BLACK EYES /GREEN HAIR

AGE - UNKNOWN

ORIGINS/AFFILIATIONS - NIL

TAG - 101311

FACILITATION - ARKHAM  ASYLUM 

1888;  ASSISTANCE REQUIRED 

Medical Conditions see page 2. 

 

Patient shows signs of excessive confidence in simple conversations and is easily distracted, hyperactive, irritated. The patient also struggles to pay attention to commonplace subjects and has become increasingly somatic in manner, some days more then others. Depressive periods most likely connect to his fatigue as the patient is extremely underweight and refuses to consume food. Sleep patterns are a mess, ranging from Narcolepsy to Parasomnias. An ADHD test has been put in. The patient has tested positive. An examination is undergoing to investigate the patient's likely bipolar disorder. The symptoms are most likely attracted from a conduct disorder. For the list of treatments, refer to <stanleyheller@aa> and <billkane@aar> 

A request for rehabilitation at Blackgate Prison is being processed. 

 

Bruce slapped the thin pile of papers down on the coffee table. "Aside from the medical conditions, what is in this paper that isn’t already obvious?" Jim frowned. "I'm sorry Bruce. This was all they could give me." Bruce shook his head whilst pacing the room.

"No...no, there has to be more. They're hiding something, I know it. There's something they're not showing you. What if I requested it?" "No, you can't. It's too risky. If this gets around there'll be questions, people might put two and two together and figure out who you are." Bruce sighed and rested his head in his heads. "I'm gonna need more than this, Gordon. It's got pieces missing all over." He trained his gaze blankly on the pastel documents in front. Something caught his eye among the lines of black ink block letters and numbers.

"1888. What's that?" It looked familiar. He'd seen it before. He felt a spike of pain in his temples, 1888. Vivid, dark, cold. Images flashing through his head like a system error. He was breathing too much for himself to handle. Like a puzzle, it all clicked together. 

1888.

1888...

He blanked out. 

 

**"Hehehow did I do, doc? HAHAHAHAH!"**

**"Shut up. Move the patient."**

**Jerome let out an 'oof' sound and cackled, as two guards shoved and kicked and prodded him into the square little cell. A doctor stood behind them with a terrified face, and Jerome grinned at the sight of it. He was thrown to the floor and the iron door slammed shut behind him, a brass little number plate on the front under the barred window.**

**'1888.'**

**Without the help of his arms, it was a struggle to get off the ground. He ended up inching himself off the gritty, cold floor by kicking towards the bed and leaning against it. The guards had left and the doctor was standing by the cell door, trying to sneak a look through the bars. He cried out in shock when Jerome leapt up and pressed his face against the bars, eyes bulging out of their sockets and laughing maniacally. "Oh where ya going, doc?" He panted. "What's wrong with me? Hhaha..Ha..ahaHHAHHHHAHAH!" The man standing outside his door's eyes widened with fear and brushed his uniform off hastily and retreated into the darkness of a bending corridor at the left, leaving Jerome howling in his own room and squirming around inside his crisp white straitjacket inside a hallway of others who will laugh with him, inside a series of interconnected hallways and rooms inside levels and levels inside Arkham Asylum.**

 

 

 


End file.
